Okay, maybe not. Deke Simmons, the sort of man who took an extra hankie to sad movies, approved heartily. Ellie Dockerty did not. Here is a strange thing I’ve noticed: women are better at keeping secrets, but men are more comfortable with them. A week or so after the Cuban Missile Crisis ended, Ellie called Sadie into her office and shut the door—not a good sign. She was typically blunt, asking Sadie if she knew any more about me than she had before. “No,” Sadie said. “But you’ve begun again.” “Yes.” “Do you even know where he lives?” “No, but I have a telephone number.” Ellie rolled her eyes, and who could blame her. “Has he told you anything at all about his past? Whether he’s been married before? Because I believe that he has been.” Sadie stayed silent. “Has he happened to mention if he’s left a dropped calf or two behind somewhere? Because sometimes men do that, and a man who’s done it once will not hesitate to—” “Miz Ellie, may I go back to the library now?
